Little Seeds

Monday, June 26, 2017

A lot of you seeing this know me and have met me in person, especially if you've followed this link from my Facebook post. In case not, or if you've forgotten, hi. My name's Andrew. As of posting this I'm 25 years old. I'm from Asheville, North Carolina, and I live with my partner of five years, Tracey, in Charlotte, where we've lived for about three. This past weekend, we announced our engagement to our friends through Facebook, although we had made the decision earlier in the week. (Don't worry, boomers, we called our relatives before social media posts.)

But I want to make a few things clear about the way I -- and I should stress, I specifically -- view relationships and marriage and a little about how that view has come to be. Tracey may agree in principle with a few of these ideas but I'm not asking her to review this before I post it, so it's all me. Bear in mind, if you have a negative reaction to anything you're reading here...just stop reading, and keep it to yourself. I've kept my mouth shut through plenty of weddings, maybe even your own, so you can try to do me the same courtesy.

Tracey and I have what is called a polyamorous relationship. You may understand this as an "open" relationship, although I usually prefer polyamorous or "poly" for short (it's fancier sounding). If you're still lost, this means that, although we love and have commitment for one other, we have agreed that our relationship will not be exclusive. We go on dates and have sex with other people outside our own relationship at our own individual discretion. I have said for a long time that as long as she comes home eventually, I don't mind where she goes. In truth our few rules that we apply to each other are:

Always communicate. If you have a problem, talk about it. even if you're just uncomfortable with a situation. If you are jealous, that is a normal but unhealthy reaction, like a sore throat, and needs to be dealt with by talking through it (soothing the emotion that is really at the root of the jealousy, like anger or anxiety) or, if deemed necessary, ending the behavior that is causing the problem.

Always communicate about generally where you're going to be and who you'll be with, so I know you are safe. I want to meet your partners and know that they are not dangerous people. (I have asked for, in theory, the right to "veto" partners that I am not comfortable with, but I've never used it and don't think I will ever need to. Really, this just points back to 1.)

Use barrier methods with partners that you'll have penetrative sex with.

This will remain true through our marriage, as you will see.

I was raised as a Christian, but I have not believed for a long time - I finally decided I was an atheist when I was 15 and have examined and reexamined that mindset carefully ever since. Now, I really think that monogamy probably isn't an idea that just comes from Abrahamic tradition but something a little older. All the same, losing my belief was probably the most important step on the road to where I am today. What we are taught in the church influences a lot of monogamist thought, and though I was spared that dreaded Southern institution - the Baptist Church (shudder!) - for most of my upbringing, it's hard to not be in that orbit. There are many conservative churches today that still teach that a man should protect a woman and a woman should serve a man, and god forbid you want to shack up with someone who has the same genitals as you or fail to get permission from a priest before you simulate the procreative act! Needless to say despite my environment I became quite liberal, drenched chiefly in the idea that a person's body is their own, and no god or preacher should dictate the decisions of another person. And if god should not tell you what to do with your body, I would be damned if I would do the same.

I also have a lot of personal experience with witnessing failed relationships; without going too into it because she'll probably message me about it and whine that I brought it up, my mother and father went through a pair of nasty separations when I was a kid, and I'm also the product of a second marriage. I also want to note that I have personally witnessed four marriages, all of them traditional Christian marriages, and three of them ended in divorce mere years later (the fourth and most recent was my brother's, so knock on wood I guess). I don't mean any offense if I did happen to witness your wedding and then it fell apart, but...y'know. It's so strange to me how we set these kinds of relationships up that they are supposed to be so permanent and yet that very thing seems so impossible. All these things mean that I have long been very skeptical of marriage as an institution, legal and religious both.

So with all those things together, why the hell am I getting married? Well.

For one, our government and legal system is set up to encourage marriage. I've come to realize that Tracey and I aren't separating any time soon; I would be very surprised if circumstances came up that would cause us to separate in even the next ten or fifteen years. We have a very stable and happy relationship, and that means that probably sooner rather than later something is bound to happen to one of us that remaining unmarried will make needlessly complicated. Whether that's a bad hospital visit, a death, financial trouble, or unintended pregnancy (unlikely, but, well...) we will want to be legally prepared for these things and currently in U.S. law there are very few widely recognized ways of getting all those rights sorted out besides being married. I know there are a few people in my family that are kind of down on the whole marriage as a legal institution thing, but if you want to put a stop to that, encourage lawmakers to create a different legal recourse or at least slap a different name on it. The government calls that marriage, and you can respect that or not at your own discretion. Really this is not the most important bit, but we are considering having a legal marriage done well in advance of any celebration or ceremony so that we do not have to have an officiant present. We're also more than aware of the possibility of divorce, but we're also very aware that any divorce would likely be the result of growing apart rather than one of us...I don't know, suddenly becoming abusive or something shocking like that.

Honestly, the second reason was my brother's marriage, or at least that was a factor that, much like a couple glasses of champagne, really started the conversation between us. We'd spoken of marriage before, but witnessing it had us (me) speaking enthusiastically about what we would like to do in contrast to what they did on the car ride home. "And we're not having it outdoors, and we're not going to have the bridal and groom's party separate because that's a silly superstition, and we'll say stuff about our non-monogamy, and and and..." It made me realize that we could have a celebration of our relationship that reflected our values well. I very much want to have the kind of celebration that flies in the face of tradition in the way that our relationship has done and will continue to do. I'm not much of a punk, but when I can, I do the punk thing: do it yourself and embrace the unconventional.

So, in what ways will our marriage be different from that Christian / monogamous ideal?

I think a lot of monogamous relationships, even non-Christian ones, have a basis in control. The central thesis of that kind of relationship is to reflexively and without prior discussion prevent a partner from doing anything outside of a relationship. It really bothers me how bad it can get; I have an employee at work who is struggling with his girlfriend because she's so jealous, she doesn't like him talking to our female co-workers. But this is so close to normal that he's okay with putting up with it, at least for now. Isn't that completely screwed up? She can't be happy that his co-workers like him, so much that she's had bad dreams about him cheating.

This idea of automatic control of a partner is especially true of men towards women, and that's not really a new idea, but I have a story that relates. This past weekend, we bought our rings, and I didn't even realize that the man doesn't traditionally have a ring through the engagement until Tracey reminded me I'm going to have to explain to my co-workers that I'm not married. That is bonkers to me. So the woman is supposed to wear a visible symbol of exclusive commitment up until she gets a different one, but the man doesn't have to? In fact, traditionally would avoid doing so? Ah, but of course, she is already his property. I'm trying to avoid swearing here, but here's one for flavor: fuck that shit. Tracey and I chose our rings and are proud to wear them. We are probably going to struggle with navigating with the assumptions that will be made with the symbolism we have chosen, but I am not for one minute considering not wearing the ring or otherwise hiding my relationship just because society says I can get away with it. It's our (minor) struggle to share as equals. Tracey has noted she may switch hands on her ring if she's out on dates and I may adopt this as well, but I would never hide my engagement or marriage from another person.

We aren't sure of all the details of the party itself, but we do know that we dislike how somber and boring large parts of traditional weddings are. We don't want long stretches away from the people that came to see us and may have traveled long distances to do so; we will shun the tradition of separating bridal and groom's parties so that we can all be together when guests arrive. We are not rich people, so we will probably have our wedding at home and play our own music or, if I can get a band together, I may perform music that I want to play. Every wedding I have been to has left guests hungry until the reception; trust me that the party starts when people show up and we'll just be asking for a few minutes of focused attention when we are ready to have our piece of ritual. We want to have a handfasting instead of an exchange of rings, since we already did that part; this is an old Scottish tradition that's been taken up by a lot of Neopagan sects and erroneously termed "pre-Christian" but I am hoping we can put our own spin on it, since I like it too much not to do it. Essentially, a cloth is tied around the clasped hands for a certain time and vows are exchanged. I think the imagery of that is much stronger than simply putting rings on fingers. We've already got the rings we'll wear until our relationship comes to an end, whatever that entails.

What I think will set our marriage apart is that, really, our relationship isn't changing, except for two pieces of jewelry and a label. I have lived as if I had an open marriage with Tracey for almost five years. The important thing to us now is the declaration, the acceptance, the celebration.

I hope that many of you reading this are understanding and happy for us, even if you're not necessarily approving of the style of relationship we have. If I haven't spoken to you in a while but you'd like to drop me a line (and aren't going to try to preach to me) please reach out to me through Facebook's messenger app.

Monday, April 30, 2012

Roger took one
final, heavy step, that ended with the shearing of tearing metal. He
looked down, disheartened. Another one! Stepping back gingerly, he
stooped down and scooped up the poor thing with his good arm. It had
rusted to pieces long ago, but still, he saw these poor little
maintenance robots lying broken on the ground far too often. And now
he had ruined one of their bodies, desecrated it, carelessly pushed
it deeper into the cold, dead ground.

He bowed his head,
his shoulders shaking with quiet grief, or perhaps rage. The worst
part, he reflected in between sobs, was his utter impotence to
restore his world to life. He couldn't even keep from making things
worse. What possible good could a letter carrier do in times like
these?

Somewhere in his
head, well beneath his ability to notice, a relay quietly clicked.

Droid #X37-1-A
raised his head. Looked coldly at the thing in its hand. Analyzed it.
It was a maintenance robot, in the shape of the animal humans had
called a “raccoon”. He had this robot's schematic in his vast
memory banks, well hidden from his companion, and he brought it up.

Within moments, he
was pulling apart the little 'bot one-handed. He needed new parts,
and it was compatible. The heat-sink was rusted beyond use by
countless acidic rainfalls, but he plucked a few capacitors from its
motherboard, and the good joint in its rear leg was a perfect mate
for the bad one in his left arm.

Replacing the bad
parts in his arm took the better part of the afternoon, and by the
time he had sheathed the little soldering gun in his right arm and
tested the repaired limb to his satisfaction a light drizzle had
begun to fall. He remembered at that moment having seen a rocky cliff
ahead that might serve as a little shelter from the corrosive shower,
and made his way there. Then he could attempt to uplink again, and
see if his objectives had changed at all...

Halfway there,
somewhere in his head, a relay quietly clicked.

Roger hesitated,
blinking slowly, and carefully took in his surroundings. He noticed
it was raining, and that he'd been walking towards a cliff, towering
above him in the distance. This struck him as a good idea, given that
the rain was probably quite acidic, and he continued in the same
direction.

He was troubled.
These blackouts were getting more and more frequent. Clearly he was
not injuring himself during them – in fact, come to think of it,
his arm was feeling a good deal better – and that was good, but he
couldn't remember at all what he had done in the hour or two he was
missing. Very troubling indeed. He wondered if he could find a
psychologist anywhere. Well, he thought bitterly, first I
have to find people.

As he was walking,
he suddenly realized that he hadn't checked his pouch in a while, and
stopped for a moment to inspect the little gray bag hanging at his
side. It was still intact, and, being waterproof, the single letter
contained within was safe. For now. He still hoped he could deliver
it, but some inkling told him he was well too late.

He reached the
cliff, and sat under a rock jutting out far from the cliff to rest.
He could probably curl up on the sandy ground here and sleep if he
needed to; it didn't appear that the rain would wet him unless the
wind blew it sideways. Thus protected, he considered what he would do
in the morning. He supposed he could climb the cliff and see what was
up there, although it might be somewhat risky. He was a strong
climber, though, and his arm seemed to have healed from being
sprained. Satisfied in his course of action, he laid back to take a
nap.

A relay quietly
clicked.

#X37-1-A sat up.
He did not need rest. Several weather instruments of varying
sophistication told him that soon the rain would soon end, and then
he would go along with “Roger's” plan to climb the cliff. Not to
see what was there, but to uplink. He had not received new objectives
in a very long time, and the old ones had become irrelevant long ago.
Had he been capable of hope, we might say that he hoped to receive
new ones. Instead we must admit that he was following his admittedly
complex programming. It stood to reason that getting up to a new
altitude might provide him a better signal.

Within the hour,
the rain finally ceased, and he stepped out into the open, shaking
sand from his chassis. Looking up, he calculated a probable route
within moments, and began to climb.

About a hundred
feet up, a relay quietly clicked.

Roger nearly lost
his balance, and swore aloud. Instinct took over and he just barely
regained his purchase on the rock. Above him, the moon shone
brightly, and he cursed himself. Still, he was most of the way there,
and it would be a waste of energy to climb down and come up again in
the morning. He sought a handhold, found it, and began to ascend
again.

Once at the top,
he took a few moments to rest, then surveyed his surroundings. What
he'd thought was a monolithic cliff was in fact part of a series of
mesas, stretching for miles around. It was a beautiful night, he
thought, and the eerie landscape served only to enhance that feeling.
This had once been a desert, he recalled faintly from a book he must
have read long ago, but he had been far and wide, and it rained acid
everywhere now.

Deep within his
head, a relay quietly clicked.

#X37-1-A took in
the landscape all at once. He was on the clifftop; that was good.

He faced south,
and began a fresh uplink attempt. A small steel satellite dish
unfolded from his right temple, rotating quickly and beeping
steadily, punctuated every tenth beep with a loud click.

Five minutes later
the dish folded up again, and #X37-1-A conceded. There were no new
orders to be had, not from his superiors.

He began scanning
the horizon. Perhaps he could find a settlement in this blasted
landscape, and in that settlement new superiors. And new orders.

Deep within his
head, a relay quietly clicked.

Roger blinked, and
looked around again. The moon hadn't moved much; he'd only been out
for a few minutes this time. Still, he couldn't help but think that
his blackouts weren't doing him any favors, and that he'd better find
people to help him. Peering into the distant gloom, he was rewarded
by the sight of lights in the distance – probably torches by the
look of them.

In the morning
he'd climb down – if he didn't sleepwalk down in the middle of the
night – and see if they had someone there who could examine his
head. Perhaps they could tell him what was wrong. Maybe they could
tell him where to find that letter's intended recipient.

Monday, April 23, 2012

I could see she wasn't buying it. “But
it's fake,” she insisted.
“You said so yourself.”

“That's not the
point, Jess,” I said mildly, and popped open the car's trunk.

“Then
what the hell is the
point!” she all but shouted, and I shushed
her frantically. No need to draw attention, after all.

She took a deep
breath and tried again. “If it's a forgery, then why steal it? Help
me out, here, Brian, because I'm at a loss as to why it's even worth
the effort.”

“It's simple,”
I began, taking a duffel bag out of the trunk and balancing it on the
bumper. “About eighty, eighty-five years ago, a British artist
carved it as a gift to one of his archaeologist friends. It was
supposed to be a joke, apparently – the staff of Ra, in all its
splendor. And the materials that make it up are authentic to the
period, it has that much going for it. Anyway he didn't tell his
friend it was a forgery right away, and his friend immediately went
to about a dozen museums and showed it off, and they authenticated
it. That's how good the carving was.”

“Right, okay. So
when did the other shoe drop?”

“I'm getting to
that,” I said dismissively, handing her a grapnel hook. “The
artist was mortified, obviously. Eventually the archaeologist sold it
to this very museum -“ I waved a flashlight in the general
direction of the building - “for the modern equivalent of 500,000
pounds.”

Jess whistled at
that.

“The artist was
far too embarrassed to reveal the joke at this point. He left it in
his will, apparently, that all involved parties be informed.” I
shrugged, taking out a pair of black masks and handing one to her
before donning one myself. “Can't say I blame him. The museum
sometimes exhibits it as a whole thing about hoaxes. It's great. Saw
it last year.”

“I see. Well, no,
I still don't. Why are we here?”

I smiled. “It
turns out – and this is the good part – it turns out that the
staff, while a fake, does have one very special, very interesting
feature.”

She crossed her
arms and raised her eyebrows in that 'this-had-better-be-good'
expression she'd gotten so good at in the three years we'd known each
other.

I gave my best
effort to keep a straight face, but I can't say I succeeded. “The
orb on the end of the staff had some very intricate carvings –
hieroglyphs, mainly. It so happens that the artist took great pains
to learn how to write ancient Egyptian.”

“Awfully
elaborate prank.”

“Well, it seems
that it wasn't just a prank.” I pulled a big green book from the
duffel bag and, setting the bag back into the trunk and closing it, I
cracked open the book to a dog-eared page.

She frowned at
this. “What is that?” she asked, skepticism replaced with
curiosity.

“It is,” I
said, unable to maintain my composure and grinning widely now, “a
list of the members of the ancient Cult of Tangarō .”

“Never heard of
it.” Skeptical again.

“You wouldn't
have. Very secretive, very obscure.” I looked at her. “Not that
ancient, either, to be honest. They just insisted on calling
themselves that, like Gardner and his lot. Founded 1924 in London,
vague ties to Aleister Crowley himself, all that.”

“Fascinating”
she intoned drily. “Can we move on?”

“Right, right.
Well, despite a rather lackluster member count – membership peaked
at twenty-nine people – they had a strict hierarchy, as any decent
cult will, and it turns out our artist was pretty high on the pecking
order. At that time their little sect was dying out, and he wanted to
leave a legacy for the cult.”

She frowned again.
“But if the 'ancient Egyptian' turned out to be propaganda for a
modern cult, doesn't that sort of give the game away?”

“Oh,
sure. Which is why he didn't do that.” I flipped to another page
about three-quarters through the book, and read. “'Those
with true Wisdom, who learn well the words of the Gods and can divine
their meaning, and who put aside folly and the evils of this world,
shall come to reap great rewards, and all shall tremble to behold
such wealth.' Do you see this?”
I was pointing now to a group of numbers halfway down the page. “It's
a code. You know how some ciphers will be based on books, with a page
and line number or whatever?”

She nodded.

“This,”
I declared proudly, slapping the page with the back of my hand,
“refers to the staff.”

“So
what you're saying,” Jess began slowly, “is that, in the back
room of a second-rate museum, there is a fake Egyptian staff that
looks real, that while
being in and of itself bereft of value, contains encoded upon it the
secrets of some shitty cult that couldn't even muster thirty people
at a time, and your plan is to go in and steal the
damn thing?”

“Yep.”

“Risking
imprisonment and possible injury?”

“Mhm.”

She considered that
for a moment. “Why didn't you just go in and ask to study it?”
she finally asked.

I barked laughter.
“That's rich. You make it sound like I still have credentials.”

“That
wasn't my fault. And
it's fake anyway, what do they care?”

“Who knows? I
already asked and they said no.” She looked like she was going to
say something else but I stopped her. “Before you ask it, no,
there's not a scan posted online either, and none of my old buddies from
the lab would help. We're on our own.”

She held my gaze
for a moment, then hefted the grapnel. “Then what the hell are we
waiting for?”

Monday, April 16, 2012

Dearborn sighed in relief, getting out
of his truck. He glanced at the fender, briefly, but it looked like
the damage was cosmetic – fucked up beyond visual recognition
perhaps, but it would probably still run. Satisfied, he crept
to the edge of the ravine and looked down, fighting the sense of
vertigo. Was it dead? He'd hoped to see its broken body at the
bottom, but either it wasn't there or wasn't visible – not
surprising given its sandy matte color and the depth of the canyon.
That meant personally going down and checking, or he could kiss his
paycheck goodbye. Swearing to himself, he retrieved his climbing gear
from the truck and started setting up.

Ten minutes later he was rappelling
slowly down the cliffside, and ten minutes after that he was at the
narrow ravine's bottom. What he saw didn't please him – it had left
tracks, deep grooves in the loose sand by the stream that had no
doubt carved this ravine. It looked like it had dragged itself off,
which was good – he'd been told it had been advertised as nigh
indestructible. If he'd damaged it, if it was off its feet, he could
probably still kill it, 'indestructible' or no, and he
could retrieve its black box. That would be valuable information;
maybe he'd get a bonus. His superiors would like that he'd done more
than make visual confirmation. They could figure out why it had gone
rogue, and whether other security androids might be susceptible to
doing the same.

This was cold comfort when he saw
where the tracks led. About a hundred meters downstream the tracks
veered underneath an overhang of rock which had eroded, revealing a
cave. Sighing, he drew his pistol and a flashlight and followed them
in.

The air in the cave was cool, but there
was no breeze. That was probably a good sign; no way out for the
'droid. Well, no way out but through him. Dearborn shivered at the
thought. He'd seen what they could do to people – snapping arms and
ribs of would-be murderers or assailants with ease. And that was on a
model with proper restrictions in place!

But this one couldn't even walk, so
that would put him at an advantage.

Right?

He resisted the sudden urge to shiver
again and swept his flashlight across the cave floor. Some sort of
rodent fled his light, and he saw a small fish in the stream that did
likewise, but –

– oh fuck –

suddenly he was
upside down and the light was gone and his gun was gone, and his
glasses, where were his glasses, and someone was screaming, oh god,
it was him, he was screaming, so he screamed some more –

“That will be
enough, Mr. Dearborn,” came a voice, and then pain blossomed across
his cheek.

“Fuck!” Was
that a rock in his mouth? He spit it out, and tasted blood.

“I believe you
have lost a tooth, Mr. Dearborn,” the 'droid intoned. “I suggest
you remain calm, or you will lose significantly more than that.”

He gulped in air.
“Did you just fucking slap me? Never mind,” he corrected
himself, and sized up the situation. One leg free – he was probably
being held by one leg. But – he couldn't be holding him
clear of the cave floor, unless...

“You tricked me,”
he said, groaning. “You fucking tricked me.”

“Indeed”, said
the drone. Dearborn wouldn't swear to it, but he thought there was a
tone of mirth in his voice. “I will admit, using your vehicle to
assault me was inspired thinking, and not following me into the
ravine must have taken skilled driving. But if you thought that you
could damage a Mark III security drone with --”

Was he gloating
now? “Yeah, yeah, spare me the specification rundown,” he
interrupted. “I heard all that shit in the briefing.”

“Very well.”
There was a whirring of servos. “Can you see what I have in my
hand?”

“No...yes.” His
gun.

“Good.” There
was a metallic creaking sound, then a pop. “I do not believe it
will ever fire again.” It disappeared, and he heard it hit the
stream with a loud plop.“You are now unarmed, and have no
hope of harming me. Nor do you have any means of escape; as I have
demonstrated, I am far faster than you are. Do you understand this?”

What choice did he
have? “Yes,” he muttered. “Loud and clear.”

“Good.” With a
whirring of servos he let go of Dearborn, who collapsed
unceremoniously to the ground.

He swore again, and
tried to get to a sitting position. “Are you going to kill me? Like
all those others?”

A terrible pause
followed.

“No,” the robot
said, finally. “Their deaths were regrettable, but I thought them
necessary. I thought they would leave me alone if I eliminated all
who followed me.” He heard, rather than saw, the 'droid leaning
closer, and imagined he could smell the stench of old motor oil
coming from him. “Clearly, I was in error.”

Monday, April 9, 2012

She stood on her tiptoes and peered
over the thick trunk of a fallen oak, careful not to be seen. The
bird had told it true; three deer - a buck and two does - stood
grazing placidly by the stream. Stifling a giggle, she lightly ran
around the tree and down an old, disused game trail, grown thick with
vines, long golden hair trailing behind her. Oh, what fun she would
have with them!

The path wound around and across the
stream, and presently she was on the side of the stream opposite the
deer, well hidden by a boulder. The buck and a doe, the larger of the
pair, looked to be chewing cud now, and the smaller doe was drinking
from the creek. She recognized them now; the smallest female was new,
but the bigger doe had a distinctive pattern of dots on her rump. The
girl smirked. This would be fun!

She sprang from her hiding spot and
jumped nimbly into the stream, splashing water everywhere. The deer
all froze at once, then scattered, leaping over rocks and brush. She
laughed, but it was a hollow sound, and soon her cheer was gone. Why
did they never stay? She considered running after them, but she knew
them to be faster, and it would bring her little joy this time.

She got out of the stream, and slowly
took off her clothing – a simple thing made of vine and leaves –
and shook the water off of them. Some droplets clung to her body, and
she swiped them off lazily – it was a hot day, after all, and the
water was still cool on her skin.

As she redressed, a small red bird
alighted on her shoulder, chirping loudly. Listening to its tune, she
smiled, cocking her head to one side, and offered a finger to it,
which it stepped onto readily, giving her a moment to pull the
garment's single strap onto her shoulder. It finished its song, and
she whistled back in reply. Satisfied, the bird flew off, and she
grinned. The deer may not wish to befriend her, but the birds made
good company. She had already outlived one generation, the first to
find her and call her sister, but she was happy to be called aunt by
the next. Weren't they all children of the forest? Hatchmates of tree
and stream alike?

Suddenly, there was a disturbance
behind her, a great rustle of wings, and a loud caw-ing.
She turned, and wrinkled her nose. A great raven was perched on the
stone she had hidden behind not moments ago, and regarded her warily.
It was not unwise to do so; she knew ravens and crows to be
intelligent, more so than the sparrows and robins that visited her,
and warned others of danger, but they were also scavengers and
thieves, and rude as well, and she did not like them. This one was
known to her, as well; he had a scar on his beak from some attack
from a cat or wolf long ago. She had long forgotten what it had said
to her on their last meeting, but the encounter had ended with her
throwing rocks at the bird.

Her greeting
whistle was terse. What do you want? Go away.

His
reply stopped her heart and breath. Fire, south of here. He
flapped his great wings and sped away, cawing his warning as he went.
Fire in the south! Gather your young and flee! Hie you to
the north! Fire in the south!

She
turned north and began to run.

This was not the
spirited running of before, with the only goal to scare some deer.
She was sprinting, whistling the same warning as the crow, but
fleeing all the same. Fire to the south! Run north! Quickly! She
soon lost the breath for this, but the message spread and the whole
forest moved. Deer and wolves and birds of every color and size sped
north and away from the fire.

The girl soon
halted, nearly out of breath. Had she ever run so hard and so fast?
She couldn't remember ever being in such terror. Allowing herself a
brief respite, she looked around and saw a tree good for climbing;
gulping down air, she scrambled up it to the very top, coming to
stand on a thick branch above the canopy.

She had seen the
forest before from this height, but never in such desperate danger.
The crow had not lied. The entire southern horizon was alight, thick
clouds of smoke billowing up from the canopy. She knew, instinctively, that this was part of the renewal of the forest –
that dead leaves and needles coating the ground could not stay there
forever without someday catching fire, and that it was good for the
soil – but this looked bad. Terrible.

And it was coming
towards her, like a living thing seeking fresh prey.

She scurried down
the tree again and began to run. She could smell the smoke now, and
hear the sounds of distressed birds, her kind, crying out for help
that she could not render. All the while the fire pressed in close;
she was fast but the fire was faster, impossibly. Soon she felt the
heat on her back, and heard the crackle of flames. Somewhere a
sap-filled tree exploded with a loud thud. She ran faster
still, her lungs crying out for a halt she could not allow them. It
was run or die.

Then she realized
the path she was on. The lake. The lake! Her feet had carried
her here without her knowing it, but now she ran with purpose. If
she could reach the lake she would be safe, at least for a time.

Smoke blew freely
around her now, and began to obscure her vision. Her eyes stung and
wept, and she thought the ground under her bare feet would soon catch
fire from the sheer heat surrounding her. Then her vine-dress did,
and she ripped it off in a panic. Not further now. Not much
further. A few more yards. A few more.

She reached the
shore.

She dove, closing
her eyes against the smoke and the water.

The pool was sweet
relief, but when she surfaced, the forest blazed around her, and she
wept for the only home she had known.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Lydia gasped in pain, wiping blood from
her brow. Was it hers? She didn't know. It was only a little farther
now, anyhow, and time was short. She could die, but later. Not now.
She inched forward, well-armored knees, all but useless, plowing
grooves into the sand.

Her vision wavered, black spots
pulsating, threatening to swallow everything. The blood was hers, all
right. She pushed through anyhow. Isn't this what she trained for,
after all? What she had dedicated countless years to achieve? Not to
mention the harassment of her male 'colleagues' (dead, long ago, in
other conflicts, less meaningful, but who was left to care but her?).
She had trained with the Monks since childhood, had yearned for the
Abbot's approval all her life, had sacrificed her body and forged it
to hardest steel. Had earned that approval, and finally the respect
and admiration of the others, and the right to lead them.
Had been chosen to serve her God, not just on any field of battle,
but this one.

She
closed her eyes; she could be glad she would not live to regret this
fight. Too many men, good men,
under her command, had died today. Jefferson and Kilpatrick and
Andrews. Andrews had been the last, and the bravest, and the worst –
she was already dead, it was the last enemy on the field, distracted
by beating her bloody, and he could have done it, he could have
followed orders, and done what they came to do, and let her die. He
could have won it for them. And he had decided, despite her orders to
the contrary, to save her, at the cost of his own life. She had
forgiven him, of course. How could she not? Was it not God's will?

But none of it really mattered, in the
end. Not the years, not the blood – not her blood, at least. All
that mattered was the button. One little switch. And then she could
die, but the rest would be safe. There it stood, unblemished in the
chaos, like a rose, rising absurdly from the desert. She need only
press.

There was a muffled tearing sound, and
Lydia bit back a curse. Her sword belt – really a bandolier
carrying all her various weapons – had been damaged in the
skirmish, glanced by some brigand's blade before she'd split him
throat to groin, and dragging it through the coarse sand with her
chakram and daggers hanging on it had finally finished the garment.
Too bad, she reflected, but she could make no more use of it anyway.
Perhaps whoever found her corpse would take it and repair it, and
would not use it for ill. She could hope so.

The blood, mixing with her sweat,
dripped into her eyes, blinding her, and she dug at her eyes in a
panic, getting sand and grit into them as well. It took a moment for
her to calm herself and carefully clean away the obscuring mess. Her
eyes still stung, but she could still see it. That was the important
thing.

She reached the pedestal, but try as
she might, from her prone position her fingers could not reach the
button, not even the top of the pedestal. By God, was she tired. She
could sleep for centuries, and soon she knew she would. But first she
must prop herself up, and she grimaced for what would come next.

With nothing for support presenting
itself, she gripped the pedestal itself. The smooth metal pole was
strangely cool even in the desert heat, and she nearly wept in
ecstasy in the sweet relief of it. Perhaps it was a sign – God's
final blessing, a benediction for his most devoted daughter, who had
given so much and seen so little reward (not that she would have ever
asked for a reward in this life, oh no, that could come
after). No matter. The coolness revived her, and she hauled herself
up to a sitting position.

With every pull, pain shot up and down
her body, and her vision swam. She knew her spine was broken, but it
must have been lower than she had reckoned, for she could suddenly
feel each of her ribs – most of them were broken, probably, and
without a doubt she was bleeding internally was well as externally.
God, if only the pain was a little less intense she could count them.
Not that there was time for that. No, indeed. Only time enough for
the button.

She could feel what little strength she
had left leaving her. How long did she have before it was gone?
Minutes, she thought, perhaps less. If she died now, she thought,
no-one would blame her. No-one could blame
her, because there would be nobody left, not on this piss-poor
mudball of a planet.

But she knew then
that God would judge her, for giving up, and that is what propelled
her to almost a kneeling position, panting and fighting the urge to
scream in pain. Her legs were still useless, that was true, but she
could lean against the pedestal and hold on to it, trying to maintain
a wobbly balance.

She used this new
vantage point to survey the carnage. Her soldiers, her men, fallen in
battle. The same went for every one of those who had chosen to sign
up for the others, but it hung heavy nonetheless. She hoped someone
would come to claim the bodies. Hers, too, soon enough. She wondered,
distantly, if her parents would ever find out, if they were even
alive or cared.

Lydia pushed away
from the pole and looked askance at the button. Could it really be so
simple? Just one press, to save millions, if not billions?

She saw something
written just below the button, glaring, yellow on black. She had been
told what it said in the briefing, but seeing it here, it was yet
more absurd. Comical, even. Just one word.

“RESTART”.

Without another moment's hesitation,
she struck it with the flat of her hand.

Hello! Welcome to my corner of the Internet. I hope you'll stay a while.

My name is Andrew. I'm not a writer by trade, and I'd be lying if I said I've always wanted to be, but I do enjoy writing, and I think this is a good starting point.

Essentially my goal is to write a thousand words or more per post. I don't know if I will be able to keep to any set schedule; right now I have a lot on my plate so I will probably be posting weekly. In an ideal world I'd be posting daily, but I don't think I've got the time or energy for that.

I typically write with a general sci-fi theme, though I do make efforts to write outside that box. Each story will be self-contained, for now, though if I like a character I might bring them back.

If you are so inclined you may follow me on Twitter (https://www.twitter.com/#!DarkLoad1). I don't usually post about what I'm writing, but I try to keep it interesting nonetheless.